The Henna Wars(59)

“Sorry …” I mumble, like I’m somehow responsible for controlling the way rainwater affects my clothes.

“It’s okay.” She begins to rifle around her drawer once more, one hand still absentmindedly drying her hair.

“I, um … I’m not sure if your clothes will fit me,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “We’re not exactly the same size.” I’m at least two sizes bigger than her—maybe more.

“Well, you can’t hang around in wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia or something.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, like she’s taking in the size of my body—noticing for the first time that it’s not the same as hers. I suck in my breath, like that will change anything. “I’m sure I can find you something.”

She eventually digs up an old, gray t-shirt that is far too big for her, but big enough for me. She pairs it with old, loose-fitting pajama bottoms that may once have been bright blue but have dulled to a color that barely resembles blue anymore.

Still, it’s not as if I have a choice. I can’t really decline her clothes or I will catch pneumonia. So I slide into her cramped bathroom, staring at myself in the tiny mirror over her sink with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

Both the t-shirt and the pajama bottoms are a little too tight, making me feel uncomfortable and itchy in my own skin. They also make me look horrible, worse than my tatty maroon uniform ever did. And that’s saying something, because our uniform has the superpower to make every person who wears it look unattractive. Except for Flávia. Obviously.

The thought of stepping out of the bathroom and facing her looking like this sends my heart plummeting. But then I remind myself that I shouldn’t care anyway. I’m supposed to be over her. We’re not even friends, really. We’re just trying to call a truce, and who knows how long that will even last. Maybe this will be good. Maybe exposing myself as an unattractive lump of potato will make me get over Flávia.

But when I walk out of the bathroom I forget all about the dull clothes clinging to me, because in front me is Flávia Santos wearing a hot pink unicorn onesie.

She looks, to put it frankly, ridiculous.

I burst into a fit of giggles. Unwillingly. The laughter bubbles up all the way from my stomach, spilling out of me in big, ugly guffaws that echo across the room. No matter how much I try to bite it down, it won’t stay down.

I should probably feel self-conscious, but I don’t.

Flávia turns at the sound of my laughter. To my surprise, she grins.

“It’s not that funny,” she says, once my giggles have finally subsided. She reaches up and runs a hand over the silver unicorn horn at the top of her onesie. “It’s cute, right?”

“Why are you wearing that?”

She shrugs. “You seemed … I don’t know, self-conscious about changing into those. I thought me wearing this might put you at ease.” She avoids my eyes as she says this, like admitting she wants to put me at ease is too much vulnerability for her. It does make my heart soar in a way I definitely don’t want it to. Because the whole getting-over-Flávia thing is not supposed to go like this. She’s not supposed to make me feel at ease.

“I need to take a picture.” I reach for my phone and turn the camera to her, but her hands fly up to cover her face.

“No way, you are not taking a photo of me like this.”

“Come on, I won’t show anyone!”

“Nope. No way. Not happening.”

I put the phone down and heave a sigh.

“Fine, fine. I won’t take a photo.”

She lets her hands drop and flashes me a smile. Before she has the chance to move another muscle, I pick up my phone and snap a quick photo.

“Hey!” she cries, lunging toward me to take the phone out of my hands. I dodge, slipping out of her grasp and climbing onto the bed. I stand up tall, on my tip toes, and raise the phone above me. It almost touches the ceiling.

Of course it’s pointless, because Flávia climbs up after me and she’s at least a few inches taller than I am. She towers over me.

“I promise I won’t show anyone!” I say again.

“I definitely don’t believe you!” She lunges for the phone. Both of us topple onto the bed. The phone slips out of my grasp, crashing onto the floor, but I barely register it because Flávia is on top of me. Her face is inches away from mine. Her hair brushes against my chest, still damp from the rainwater.

“S-sorry,” I mumble. She shakes her head. I can see every bounce of her curls. And when she stops, I can make out the flecks of gold in her eyes.

She inches closer until there’s barely any space between us.

“Hello?”

Chyna’s voice makes Flávia jump off of me as if I’m a house on fire. Chyna pushes the door fully open just as I manage to sit up. Flávia looks at her with wide eyes and a flush on her cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice comes out a little breathless.

Chyna seems to take us in for a moment, and I’m not sure what she sees. Her expression doesn’t change. She turns to Flávia and says, “Why are you wearing that?”

Flávia shifts uncomfortably, not looking Chyna in the eye. “My uniform got wet in the rain and I wanted to be comfy.”